


Gateway

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [35]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: ...idk





	Gateway

**Author's Note:**

> ...idk

Everything is a mess. Then again, everything is always a mess.

Was it the state of the chests getting to him, or something else? Or, more probable, it was the tent.

Damn thing had almost collapsed on him this morning. He needed to repair it, or get someone to do it for him.

Maxwell sighed, rubbed his face and took a steady breath of air, or as steady as he could get it, and the faint tinges of nervous, panicked dark energy wavered in the back of his mind, creeping down his spine to his chest, he could almost _envision Their creeping shadow tendrils-_

Stop. Take a breath, and get a hold of yourself.

Maxwell closed the chests lid, halting only a moment before it could be slammed and instead taking the time to have it click closed quietly, and he stared at it for a long moment, counting to ten as slowly as he could at the moment.

His concentration was broken by a loud bang, and it was only because he had been anticipating it that he didn't jump, hand curling into a fist that stayed on top of the wooden chest as he heaved a sigh.

The foresight didn't stop his heart from pounding in his chest, nor that jittery shot of adrenaline, a flutter of memory, nerves, of hound teeth or spider eyes, but there was none of that in camp and he knew it.

When he turned around, Maxwell knew he was going to see another mess, even as voices started up in chatter, always chatter wasn't it, excuses excuses excuses, _why was that all that came out of their godforsaken mouths-_

He had to take another breath, chest aching and tense with unspent energy, and he made his hands stay at his sides and schooled his expression as best as he could, and his jaw complained with how tight he grit his teeth but when Maxwell swung around to view the mess he made sure there was nothing for them to see.

One of the crockpots had been knocked aside, fallen right to the dirt, thankfully empty and stone uncracked, but one wooden leg had been bent and splintered, and the huge strongman was rubbing the back of his neck, looking apologetic as the spider child hid themself behind him, mandibles twittering and silent as the short scientist before them rose his voice into that horrendous screech that rang in Maxwells ears all too often, just enough to set his teeth on edge even more.

The two had been horsing around, obviously, and Maxwell crossed his arms as he straightened his back with a cracking, almost painful pop, listening for a moment as Wilson berated the two for their behavior.

The commotion was gathering attention, and the firestarter stared at it all with interest by the fire. His neice, seated beside her, didn't even raise her head, back turned and hunched over as Wilson's voice pitched again for a moment, raging as he paced around the toppled crockpot and ran his claws about its surface, trying to find more damage perhaps.

It was her slightest flinch, one that caught Willows attention and made the woman turn her attention to the girl beside her, that finally made Maxwell intervene.

He didn't like to, didn't find it in his interest whatsoever, but Wilson's voice had cracked at some point and he looked more mad than ever, and there was Webber, practically cowering behind the strongman, who also seemingly looked as if he wanted to cower behind someone as well.

The slightest of mistakes were usually the tipping point. Everyone was on edge, and this had apparently broken the camel's back.

In the corner of his eye, Maxwell could see the old woman poking her crooked nose out of her tent, glasses glinting with the now raised firelight, and soon enough she'll butt her way into this if it wasn't resolved.

“-if you just paid any sort of attention, this is not the _fucking_ playground, this is _camp_ , what were you thinking, tossing Webber around like that, you could have hurt them-”

“I think they get the picture, Higgsbury, no need to shout so much.”

The short man stuttered a moment as Maxwells hand landed on his shoulder, and the man huffed in breath as he shrugged him off, barely giving him a sharp, wide glance before flashing his scowl to the spider child, who, in their wisdom, ducked down behind Wolfgangs giant legs.

“-And, and you! What have I told you about running around near the pots, if this had been full you could have been burned, what, were you just ignoring me, pretend I'd not notice oh I'd notice, Webber, I'd _fucking_ notice when one of them would fall and you'd get _fucking scalded_ , what the _bloody hell_ would you be doing then-”

Webber whimpered at that, and Wolfgang had puffed himself up from his cowering, and there was Wickerbottom pulling herself from her tent and a sharp look from Willow from the fire, and Maxwell by now could see Wendy's shoulders shaking, the poor girl, and it was enough for him to quell whatever little satisfaction he was getting from hearing the short man lose it and instead put a much firmer grip upon his shoulder and pull him back a step to prevent his face being punched in by a big man protecting a small child.

“Higgsbury, get a hold of yourself.”

He got shot a glare for that, a sharp twisting around as Wilson pulled away and tensed himself, and his eyes were bloodshot and wide and the bags under them heavy, and his bone talons clicked and clacked and rubbed against each other as his gaze darted back and forth between them all.

“This isn't the time, nor is there a reason for it. There are three more crockpots, so leave it be; I'm sure by now everyone in camp knows the rules.”

It was tiring, meeting Wilsons stare, but the old nosy woman's footsteps were drawing near and the short man seemed to realize that.

“Fine! Fine.” Wilson turned one last scowl over at Wolfgang and Webber, and the little child sniffled quietly, hiding again as the strongman met him with an even bolder frown, and that backed Wilson off enough to just glare at Maxwell instead. “Just don't fucking touch me again.”

And with that the situation was done. Wilson walked away.

More like stormed, but Maxwell considered it a victory in of itself and exhaled heavily.

Wolfgang gave him a look, as if he wanted to speak, but Webber was clinging to his leg, whimpering quietly, and the man gave him an expression that was probably apologetic and relieved, crouching down a moment to bundle up the spider child into a hug and taking them to the fire, to destress the situation.

Willow was holding Wendy, it looked like, rocking her and talking quietly, and for a long, faint moment Maxwell almost wanted to go over himself.

Yelling, especially yelling at children, seemed to trigger something in the others, perhaps vague memories. Once, he'd have known the reason, but at this point Maxwell was sure he didn't want to know anymore.

It wasn't any of his business, after all. Not anymore, anyway, and never again.

Both a relieving and dejected thought.

There was a grumble, a clearing of the throat, and Wickerbottom met his eye as he looked at her. The old woman adjusted her glasses, another polite cough for a moment as the background mutterings of camp, soft talk to children, started up.

The movement made his own fingers twitch, a half remembered habit, but it has been long enough to ignore the urge. He has not worn glasses for a very, very long time, and he suspected he wasn't lucky enough to ever find another pair that would work. The ruling Queen was not nearly so generous, but he understood perfectly well.

“That, Mr. Carter, is the second time this week.”

“Only a week so far? I'd chalk this up as a new record.”

“It is no laughing matter.” The old woman glowered, face drawn tight and serious, and she had her hands clasped and she looked hunched and diminutive but her very voice was stark and stern and it set a heavy tone to their quiet conversation. “According to my knowledge, this is the fifth time he has yelled at young Webber for something so insignificant, and I do not believe it will be the last. I had thought you had this under control?”

“I am _not_ his keeper.” There was a bite in his tone, he couldn't help that, a slight snarl curling his face before he drew in a breath to even out his expression, and the withering faint threads of anxiety settled in him were acting up, reminding him all too much of _Their horrendously plaintive pinning-_

“I do not expect you to be.” Wickerbottom took a breath, exhaled in a deep sigh, and held his gaze a moment more.

And then she closed her eyes, rubbed her wrinkled forehead, and her voice changed, grew tired and slow.

“But even you must know this has to stop. Whatever it is that bothers him so, to the point of lashing out at _children_ , it has to be resolved, and soon. I may have no choice if it continues.” Her look was steady, firm, and at the end of her rope. “The camp is being affected now, Mr. Carter, and in a bad way. I see no reason to give even a second chance if it comes to exile-”

“I will not allow that.” Maxwell had straightened up, met her gaze with something a bit darker, and the jitter of left over bad air had settled into his throat but he pushed through it, even as he felt foreign panic and wavering shadows enter his own vision in the ever so slightest of ways. “There is no reason to kick him out-”

“-And, if I may speak frankly,” Wickerbottom continued on, and her voice hadn't risen but it stopped the words in his throat, kept his own tone from causing another scene, “-there is little reason for even your presence at this time. To my understanding, you are a factor in this situation.”

She paused, silent, and tipped her head only the slightest bit.

“I am not wrong, am I?”

The silence after, of his non answer, seemed to be enough and she nodded, adjusted her glasses one more time.

“Figure it out, Maxwell.” Her voice had dropped, softened and he dipped his head, looked to the ground in silence. “I don't want to split people out of camp, but I will if I have to. He will not talk to me, so I am asking you to fix a problem _you_ started.”

She turned away, as if to her tent, before seeming to rethink something and giving him a second of her time for a moment longer, looking at him over her glasses.

“Fix it, and I will make sure you are under no threat of exile for awhile longer. The moments peace are what you ask for each time you arrive at camp, are they not?”

She didn't let him answer to that, thought he had nothing to say either way, and instead turned away to totter towards the fire, waving her hands as she spoke softly to the children, assured them both that the scientist they knew well and cared for was just a bit under the weather, and that they shouldn't think too harshly of him for it.

Willows sharp snap, questioning his mental well being, was silenced by the old woman's stern eye, and Maxwell was left standing there, alone and feeling an all too familiar panic stir itself up in his chest.

This problem was caused by his hands, his alone, and now his hands were the ones to fix it.

Maxwell sighed, heavy, and he felt ever so tired. Perhaps he should just pack his bags.

***

“-and, and if this isn't working, then this is next, the melted gold will meld, connect, it works every time, it _has_ to work this time, it has to-”

Finding the scientist back at the older, smaller camp wasn't a surprising thing in the slightest, and for the most part, Maxwell was at least glad that he needn't trample off into the wilderness for the man.

He hardly wanted to do the bare minimum at this point, but being kicked out of camp was not something on his list. Especially with the cold coming in, the chill creeping into his back and joints; fixing a tent by himself was much harder when his own hands wouldn't work properly, or ached so bad he felt the shivering shadow need to rid himself of the damn things.

Maxwell has seen the others give in to such primal, rash actions, has almost delightfully watched them wither about, cursing themselves and their silly brains, and then himself and his shadow Throne, but this was a different time now and he wanted nothing to do with that past anymore. Getting exiled for something this stupid would be even more pathetic than he knew he was, and he couldn't allow for it.

And he needed Wilson to know that.

The mans claws clicked and clacked against metal, against wood and wires and gold, and Maxwell hesitated only a moment before setting his hand on the man's shoulder, a heaved sigh escaping him.

“This will need to stop now, Higgsbury.”

The scientist froze, claws tight on gold and gems, and Maxwell took the moment to look up, over at the rising mass of put together planks and stone and worked upon arch.

It wasn't even near complete. It wasn't even close to any portal the other has ever created, and Maxwell still was doubting its viability, and he supposed he always would.

Even if Wilson somehow got it working, there was no reason to believe it would take them all back home. Maxwell may be off the Throne, but he understood the changing of times; it wouldn't be 1906 when he got back to that world, and it wouldn't be 1920 for Wilson either. What it would be was a mystery, one they'd never solve, because now…

Now, this portal was never to be.

“What, what will need to stop now?” Wilsons voice wavered, drew thin and wobbly, and before Maxwell could answer he barked out a giggled laugh. “You're, you're not talking about this, right? I'm almost there, you know, almost, a few more days, maybe a month, and then!”

The short man flung a hand out, pointed a blackened talon to the structure, the creation that looked hardly even conceived as of yet, and Maxwell could see that the man could hardly dare to look at him now, and was just barely able to keep a wavering gaze onto the portals bare structure.

“And then what, Higgsbury? I hardly expect it to work.”

Wilson froze at that, silent, and then shrugged off Maxwells hand to turn an almost horrified look upon him, before it morphed into a dark, scowling sneer.

“You, you know what! It'll work, just as my other portals, they always work, you told me yourself.” 

The short man studied him, dark eyes looking him over with drawn eyebrows and a firm, heavily tired scowl.

“...they want to stop us, don't they?”

Maxwell sighed, rubbed his forehead, and took a few steps around Wilsons workbench to examine the portals pillars, all too tired, oh he was just too damn tired for all this nonsense.

Just let him rest, for once in his life. What he wouldn't give to the Queen for a quiet nights rest.

“That doesn't matter, since the portal doesn't work.”

“What makes you say that, huh, what gives the impression it wouldn't?”

Wilson had gotten up, walked over to one pillar and then knocked upon it with his knuckles, and it sounded hollow and empty, and void of any promise.

Even the air was drained, the very breath he took in silent. There was no magic, nor sleight of hand, for this portal. Maxwell could taste the absence on his tongue, and it made him nauseous for a fantasy that would never come true.

This portal, no matter the work the both of them have given it, the sheer amount of blood they've spilled for it to run, to slick its gears smooth, no matter it all, this creation was never to breath.

Maxwell knew this, easily. Why was it harder for Wilson?

“It'll work, it has to, it'll fucking work because we've gotten one to work before and this time, this time it'll really work, it'll-”

“Wilson.”

The man quieted, stopped his wild gesturing, especially with how Maxwell had caught one of his hands, gloved fingers about his darkened wrist, and finally the short man met his eye.

His eyes were bloodshot, terribly, pupil small and shivery, face darkened with exhaustion and stress and harsh, angry wrinkles, and Maxwell knew he was frowning at the sight but he couldn't stop himself, nor did he try.

The gloves didn't convey much touch, but it didn't stop him from rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of the other man's wrist, looking down as to not meet his eyes, as to not have to really think too hard about this.

“It won't work. We need to stop, tear it down, and go back to camp. You…”

The thought of tearing it down didn't sit right on him, not in the slightest, but Maxwell grit his teeth and swallowed down the little hope of getting out that he had left, squashed it down with a mental, internal heel with as harsh of a force as he could invision.

Deep down, he truly wanted to believe that it would, because both of them were working on it, both of them, just like the last two portals, and like the last two this one should do _something_ at the very least. But, for the sake of that camp, for the sake of the two children, for the sake of, of…

Of not being kicked out of a place that made life easier for him, he was going to give up. And he had to make sure Wilson gave up as well.

“You need to go back and apologize to Webber. There was no reason to yell at them.”

“Oh there most certainly was! They could have gotten hurt, or even worse! And hell, once this is working I don't have to apologize for anything, they'll all go home, this is the best thing I could give them-”

“Wilson.”

Maxwell had his hands on both the man's arms now, letting his fingers try to rub comforting patterns to his darkened wrists, gently draw his fingertips to trail rough knuckles, and maybe it was the defeated tone that had swelled into his voice, or perhaps the dark shadow air that surrounded this half finished portal itself, creeping its way into his brain, as it had settled so deeply as it had into Wilsons, but the short man quieted with a sharp inhale, breath catching as he squeezed his eyes shut, claws curling into bone talon fists, still slow, still careful as to not knick him or cause even a faint scratch.

“Don't tell me it won't, I _know_ it will, Maxwell, I _know_ , it has to, just let me finish it, I'm so close to finishing it-”

“You are not. We haven't changed a darn thing about it since last spring, and it is almost winter. Listen when I say that this machine will never be finished. It is a waste of our time.”

Whether he believed that was up for debate, but he knew one true thing off of this unfinished creation; it was sucking the very life out of them, whether by shadow influence or their own incompetence, but it didn't matter in the end.

What was more important was that camp, and the not being thrown out and exiled for death part of it all. This, at least, he could be assuredly experienced with.

And, for the life of him, the thought of abandoning Wilson to weather through and bleed out for this machine, this despicably hopeful machine, was one that sent threads of true born panic through his chest, drove away the shadow influence long enough to know with a certainty that he wouldn't stand by to let this happen.

He couldn't, and Maxwell didn't know why, but truly he was getting much too tired to try and understand the reasons. What he knew was this:

He'd not let Wilson give himself to this machine, this dark thing that was promising everything to him in the long working nights, as it promised Wilson the same. For all his dealings with the shadows, Maxwell knew a con when he saw one, and this?

...wasn’t one, but the stakes were too high, and the risks too great. The machine may turn on, spin its wheels and eyes, but it would never give them what they wanted. It would all be for ruin.

And, for reasons unknown to him, he'd not allow that of Wilson P. Higgsbury, not again, not ever again.

The short man drew in a breath, was ready to argue, fight back, rip everything apart just to give his lifesblood to the damn thing, and Maxwell spoke first, just to ruin it all first and foremost.

“I do not beg, but I am asking you now; leave this behind, and go back to camp to apologize. You are a gentleman, are you not?”

Wilson had his eyes squeezed shut, a pained snarl falling upon his face, internally split, and Maxwell held fast to him, to make sure his point was put across.

“Go back, and apologize, and forget this bloody stupid idea we've crafted. It was a mistake on my part, and I do not want it to get worse.”

Perhaps he was being too up front, too vocal, too...blunt, but it needs to be done. The shadows were creeping in close, the portal called for more blood and nightmare oil, needed to be fed, and only his stayed hands, holding Wilsons wrists close, were what stilled the both of them.

Maxwell wanted, so badly, to believe that it would work. So, so badly.

But he'd not let Wilson make a fool of himself for a third time, a third flung switch to create even more havoc and ruin. It…

It wasn't fair.

He felt Wilson tense, grow still, and his face was furrowed, eyes still closed tight and frown dipping darkly on his face, and Maxwell felt the shadows shiver and laugh, at their winning arguments, promises. He could hear them too, trying to convince him, and oh how convinced he was.

He wanted to leave this place, with Charlie, he wanted to go home, he wanted his glasses and that younger body and stupider, gullible mind, he wanted Charlie’s hand in his own and _he wanted to go home._

But Maxwell knew shadows too well. He knew when they lied, and when they spoke truth, and he knew when that faint wiggly line in between got mixed up, when both right and wrong were one and the same. There was no winning, coming out on top, if he listened to them.

So it was a different resolve, realizing Wilson would fight him on this if he didn't act, that made Maxwell reach out a bit more and pull the man close, closer, to bury his face into the greasy tangle of his odd hair and to close his eyes and to try and ignore the shivery smoke of shadow influence trying to set hooks to his brain.

It was shadow that gave him the dreams of the portal, as they had done for Wilson, and it was shadow that was convincing him to want to continue the creation of this new abomination. And, he'd not allow it.

Not anymore.

Wilson was tense in his arms, tense and shivering and shaking, and after a long moment claws rose up to grab a hold into his worn suit, tight and clinging as the man finally stopped fighting.

“...You said it would work.” Whispered against him, faintly, Wilsons face pressed to his chest, and Maxwell breathed in and out slow, his own eyes closed. “One more portal, and this one would work.”

“Third time's a charm, right?” There was a shivery grin on Maxwells face, which he hid in the other man's hair, arms tightening around his stout frame as a lump rose in his throat, and oh how he _wished_ that this could have worked, he _wanted Them to be telling the truth, please, for once let him win-_ “But, not this time.”

There was a certain comfort, having another person pressed just so against a body, misfitting puzzle pieces, and Wilson was clinging to him as tightly as he himself was to Wilson, and if he listened, maybe, just maybe, Maxwell could hear the other man's heartbeat over the shadows whispering promises, convincingly made excuses and reasonings.

“Next time?” Wilsons voice wavered, an almost sob, and his claws drew tight, possibly puncturing and tearing his old suit by now, but Maxwell let him without argument, trying to focus his shadow addled mind onto the warmth of contact and the pressure of touch, a sense of something he had been missing upon the Throne.

“...Perhaps.”

He didn't want to tell him that a no to the shadows meant a no to the future deals in comparison. They'll not offer again, and the lot of every pawn was to be stuck upon this waking Constant of planes, for eternity and then some, because of this one, last decision between the two of them.

Maxwell realized, after a moment, claws clinging tight to him and chest pressed close against his own, breathing ever so slightly out of sync, a heartbeat ticking along with his own, that perhaps, maybe, he could believe that this was a fine thing.

“But, this is for the best.”

A moment of silence, and for once it truly was silent, the shadows quiet, wagging tongues empty of tone and word and achingly familiar sweet promises, and then Wilson nodded against him, a heavy sigh heaved, a face turned to his shoulder and weight leaned against him fully and utterly.

For a moment, Maxwell waited, listened, and his heart ached, for promises left broken, unmade, never fulfilled, but his hands were bunched in a red vest and his thin chest was breathing against a stockier one and, for all that it was worth?

Perhaps he was better off.

With that in mind, the whispering shadows gone, abandoning the plagued gateway in all its unfinished glory, he turned his face to whisper in the other man's ear.

“To camp then. Webber was very distraught when I left it earlier.”

Wilson heaved a sigh against him, heavy and drawn low, but it wasn't the tense bite of shadow invasion.

It was just a sigh, and the shadow cloud has left them be, as hollow men as they'd ever be.

Maxwell supposed that that was all that they'd get in the end. He shouldn't expect any more, nor less.

But, with Wilson pressed against him and not showing any signs of letting go, of leaving as of yet, perhaps this was just enough as it was, for the two of them.

Perhaps, maybe, this was all the two of them needed.


End file.
